Relearning the Family Business
by you-idjits
Summary: Dean wakes up alone in a hospital with total amnesia, and now Sam has to explain to Dean who they are and what they do for a living. Dean doesn't take it too well. Takes place between 6.17 My Heart Will Go On and 6.18 Frontierland. T for swearing.


He wakes up in a hospital with no idea where – or who – he is.

It's the _who_ that really scares him, because he feels like he should definitely know at least a name. He wakes up groggily, senses returning one at a time. He wiggles his fingers, then his toes, and turns his head to the side. All in working order. But something – something feels off. Everything is missing.

He tries to sit up, only to find that it causes a massive headache. Okay, then. He'll have to stay down for now. Instead, he takes time to gauge his surroundings.

It's a run-of-the-mill hospital. The fact that hospitals seem familiar to him is good, anything familiar is good, and he tries to wrack his brain and remember a time he'd been in the hospital in the past but there's nothing. There should be something there, right? But when he tries to think of his past, nothing surfaces. But he recognizes a hospital for what it is. He knows how to move and thinking isn't too hard. There's just something wrong with his memory.

A doctor enters, and he prides himself on recognizing the stranger as such. White coat, mint green clothes, it screams doctor and he can't explain it to himself but he just _knows_, and that's a good sign, right?

"You're awake," the stranger says, and she examines the screen by his bed that monitors his vitals. "Welcome back."

"What's going on?" Words, that's good. He understands her words, and his own fall into his mind easily. He remembers language.

"You tell me," she says. "A truck driver found you unconscious behind a gas station, called 911. You've got a pretty nasty concussion; we weren't sure when you were going to wake up. How do you feel?"

"Like I've got a massive hangover."

She laughs, and he doesn't understand why that's particularly funny, but he tries to laugh with her. The sound comes out hollow, forced.

"Can you tell me the last thing you remember?"

"Uh… no."

She quirks an eyebrow at him. Clearly "no" is not the patient's usual response.

"I don't remember anything," he admits.

"Do you have a name?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know."

She takes a deep breath. "Amnesia, wow. I've heard of it happening, but rarely so severely, and I've never seen a case myself-"

"What's your name?"

"Clint. Dr. Clint. You really don't remember anything?"

He shakes his head. "I- I figured that out pretty quickly when I woke up. Things are fuzzy, but I've been trying to self-diagnose. Clearly I remember motor skills and basic functions. I remember English. And I know what hospitals and doctors are and I think I know some basic geography and math and world history and stuff." He's rambling now, because he's scared and confused and he doesn't even remember his own name. That's definitely _not_ supposed to happen.

The doctor nods, scribbling down his words. "Okay, those are all good signs. It happens sometimes that somebody forgets all their personal memories. Friends, lovers, their own past. Personal things are kept separate from skills and functions in the brain. It's possible you're undergoing retrograde amnesia. I'll call in the neurologist to-"

"Please, just… slow down. My head hurts, and I don't have a name. Can I at least have a name?"

She hesitates, meeting his eyes. Apparently she sees something in them, because she sighs and sits down in the chair by his bed. "Well, in all the paperwork we've been calling you John Doe. How do you like the name 'John'?"

He nods. "John. Okay."

"Okay then, John. Are you sure you remember nothing? Try and remember a family member, a piece of your childhood. Maybe how you ended up behind that gas station?"

He shakes his head. There's nothing, absolutely nothing there, not even a feeling. His mind feels like a whiteboard, scrubbed clean. "I don't even know what I look like."

Dr. Clint's eyes widen, and she twists behind herself to grab a hand mirror.

When John sees himself, a wide smile breaks across his face. "Damn. I look like a fucking Calvin Klein model."

Dr. Clint laughs. "If I didn't have to maintain a professional environment, I'd probably be asking you out for a beer. You're gorgeous, you are."

Their eyes meet for one flirtatious moment and then Dr. Clint clears her throat. Back to business.

"So, you were found alone, knocked unconscious, with one blow to the head. Probably the cause of the amnesia. Your memories should return, albeit slowly. We'll keep checking in on you, monitoring your progress. I'll, er, give you a little time to get used to the situation. A nurse should be in with lunch any minute."

"Wait," he says, as she turns to leave, "did I have anything on me? A wallet, phone, anything?"

She nods. "Thank you for reminding me. We have a strict privacy policy here, so nobody's gone through them. Maybe your real name is in here." The doctor pulls open his bedside drawer and lifts out a ziploc bag of personal belongings. "You can go through these at your own pace."

And then she leaves him with his empty mind.

John pulls out the wallet first. The I.D. is under the name Daniel Kaffee, which he finds a little too good to be true. It doesn't fit him, anyway. He prefers John. He wonders briefly if he has some kind of emotional connection to the name John, but there's really nothing there. He is only imagining it, imagining it because he wants so badly to remember something.

The wallet has a few credit cards, all under different names. Okay, so he uses fake identification. That would explain the Daniel Kaffee I.D. Maybe he's a secret agent, working for the FBI. But that doesn't fit either. Nothing fits.

Next he examines the phone. There are seven new messages, but the voicemail is password protected and of course John can't remember the code. He scrolls through the contact list instead. The first number on speed dial belongs to someone named Sam, the next to Castiel, and the third to Bobby. The names feel foreign, like they belong in someone else's phone. And who the hell names their kid Castiel?

He fingers the car keys, but they feel unfamiliar in his hands. Everything feels unfamiliar.

Dammit, he hates this already. He has a history, a family, he has friends named Sam and Castiel and Bobby. Why can't he remember anything?

The man with this wallet and phone and set of keys is not the same as the man in the hospital bed. It all feels distant.

John fumbles at the keyboard of his phone, eventually dialing Sam's number. Of course, it goes to voicemail.

At the beep, he hesitates, unsure of what to say. _Hi, I don't know you, but for some reason your number is number one on my speed dial and I'm stuck in a hospital and I don't know who I am? So maybe you could come meet me and tell me my name, because all I've got to go on right now is Daniel Kaffee and that sure as hell ain't going to cut it._

Instead he just breathes into the phone for a moment, then presses end call.

What was he thinking anyways, calling a stranger? John doesn't know if he can trust this Sam. All he knows is that pre-accident John could. But John doesn't know if he even trusts himself.

Dammit, that doesn't make any sense.

The doctor returns a few hours later. He likes her, because he knows her name, and she's only just met him too.

"Any luck with the name?" she asks.

"I think I'll stick with John," he says in lieu of an answer.

"Listen, we've run some diagnostics and they only agree with my preliminary hypothesis. Retrograde amnesia. It's rare, but there have been cases before of total memory loss. The most we can do is wait for your memories to return, John."

He nods and fakes a smile because he thinks that's what one is supposed to do in this kind of situation. His world has fallen to pieces and he doesn't know how to put them back together. Hell, he's forgotten the damn instructions too.

John doesn't know a lot about himself yet but he knows one thing – he hates being patient. He hates the idea of having to sit in this hospital and wait.

But he fakes a smile and answers the doctor's questions as well as he can.

* * *

He dozes on and off for the next few days, watches TV when he's awake or flirts with the pretty nurses and doctors. Sam never returns his call. He wonders if he should call again, but Dr. Clint said to just be patient. And he's scared of diving into the unknown like that. Sam and Castiel and Bobby might as well be strangers right now.

That's when it happens.

It's on his third day in the hospital when John's woken from a nap by a loud commotion in the hallway. Someone is yelling, and it sounds like Dr. Clint is involved because she's trying to calm the angry person down. Clearly it's not working.

Then the door to John's hospital room opens and a giant storms in.

He's tall and angry, with brown eyes that grow wide when he sees John. His steps are heavy but they suddenly falter as he enters the room.

"Dean!" Recognition flashes in this stranger's eyes.

John frowns. "Excuse me?"

"Oh my God, dude, where have you been? I've been looking everywhere for you!"

Dr. Clint stumbles into the room behind the man. "I'm sorry, John, we tried to stop him, but he insisted on-"

"John? Who's John?" The stranger turns to look at her, then follows her gaze back to John. "Dean, what's going on?"

"Sorry, dude, you've got the wrong guy. I don't know you."

The look that flashes across the man's face terrifies John. He looks hurt and scared and lost all at the same time. It reminds John of how he felt when he first woke up. "What?"

Dr. Clint regains her control. "This man is suffering from amnesia, sir. I'm sorry, but we're going to have to escort you out."

"No," he says, shaking his head in disbelief. "No, you can't do that, that can't be true. I'm not going anywhere!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but only next of kin are allowed at this time-"

"He's my brother!" blurts the stranger. "Please, he's my brother."

Dr. Clint looks at John questioningly, but he shrugs in return, eyes wide.

Could it be? Could this stranger really be someone from John's past?

"Listen," the man says gently. John wouldn't have imagined such a quiet, soothing tone to come from such a giant. "My name is Sam Winchester. This is my brother. If he's really forgotten everything, let me help him."

Sam. That's the name in the phone, the one John tried to call. Rashly, impulsively, John decides this stranger can be trusted.

"It's okay." He waves Dr. Clint away. "Just give us a minute."

She nods, glances warily at the stranger one last time, and then leaves them alone.

The man – Sam – takes two large strides towards John, then crumples into the chair by his bed. "Is it true? Do you really not remember anything? I swear to God, if this is some kind of undercover operation, I will skin you alive."

John shakes his head, eyes widening at the threat. "No! I swear, I don't remember a thing. I just… I just woke up in this bed, alone."

A flash of pain runs through Sam's eyes, pain so deep it strikes a chord in John.

"What is it?"

"Nothing." Sam shakes his head. "It's just… we promised each other we'd never let the other wake up alone in a hospital."

"We did?"

"Yeah, when we were kids. I had to do it alone once and I got really scared. You… you promised me then and there you'd always be at my hospital bedside. And this time I wasn't here for you." He reaches out a hand, maybe to grab John's, but John pulls away. "Jesus, I'm sorry, Dean."

"Dean." John swallows, slowly. "Is that my name?"

Sam leans back, surprised. "Yeah. Dean Winchester."

John wants so badly for something to click into place, for it to kickstart his memory, but nothing happens. Dean Winchester feels just as foreign as John Doe. But still, it's something.

"Tell me more. You said you're my brother?"

Sam nods, eyebrows furrowing. He's got such sad eyes. He looks like he's seen a lot of pain in his time. John wonders if he has, too.

"How did I end up here?"

Sam shrugs. "You'd been on your own for the past couple of weeks. I don't know what got to you, but you weren't returning my calls, so I called Cas, and we tried looking for you, but… Then I got your voicemail."

"You got that?"

"I was confused by it, to say the least. But it was the only lead we had. We tracked you down to here with the GPS signal. I'm sorry it took me so long."

"No, I'm…" Dean swallows. "I'm glad you're here. I don't remember you, and I'm sorry I don't if we really are brothers. But it's better than nothing."

They sit in silence for a moment, both gathering their thoughts.

"You said you called Cas? Who's that?"

"Castiel. He's a friend. Your best friend, actually."

"Castiel." Dean rolls the word over his tongue. "His name's in my phone."

"That's right," says Sam. "He's currently scouring the country looking for you. You didn't think to call him?"

"I called you," Dean says. "But I- I didn't know what to do, what to say. I didn't know if I could trust you. Still don't." At Sam's hurt expression, he adds, "Sorry, dude, but I just can't. You say you're my brother, but I just don't recognize you."

Sam shakes his head. "Things have been bad before, but this… Whatever, we'll figure it out. Cas can fix you."

"Fix me?" Dean sits up at that. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

"Nevermind. I'll call him, tell him to meet us back at the motel."

"How far am I from home?"

Sam sighs and ignores the question. "Last I heard from him, Castiel was in Alabama. You should be grateful, Dean. You know how busy he is, and he's taking time away to search for you."

"That's just it," says Dean, "I _don't_ know how busy he is. Where does he work? Hell, where do _I _work?"

"We'll explain everything later; let's just get you out of the hospital." Sam stands.

"Whoa, hold your horses. I just met you! I'm not about to run away with you and some guy with a funky name."

Sam shoots him an exasperated look. "Dean, quit being unreasonable."

"I'm- _I'm_ being unreasonable? Listen, Sam, I don't _know _you. All I know is I woke up in a hospital a few days ago with a shitload of fake credit cards and I don't even know where I am. And now you're storming in and telling me I have a life that I don't fucking remember and it's just a lot to take in, okay? I feel _awful_. I don't even remember my own brother, for Christ's sake."

Once finished, he looks down at the foot of his bed, angry and embarrassed. He feels Sam's eyes on him.

"You're right." Sam sinks back into the chair. "Jesus, I'm sorry, Dean. I got so focused thinking on how I would solve this, I didn't even think about how you-"

"Just… slow down, man." Dean runs a hand through his hair. "Tell me the truth."

Sam shakes his head. "I can't do that. I wish I could."

That's not the answer Dean expected. If anything, it makes him trust Sam less. "What do you mean by that?"

"If I tell you the truth, you'll run away screaming. You're… you're kind of a mess, Dean."

"And this is supposed to make me _trust_ you?"

Sam hesitates, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wallet. He opens it and slides out an old, weathered photo.

It's of two boys on the hood of a car with an older man. Dean doesn't recognize any of them. When Sam flips it over, the back reads: _Sam, Dean, and John, 1992._

Sam points to the older boy in the photo. "That's you. You're thirteen here. And that's me, and Dad."

"John- that's our dad's name?" Maybe Dean wasn't imagining the familiarity.

"Yeah, that's him," Sam says steadily. "See? I'm not lying to you. I swear I won't lie to you, Dean. We just have to take this slowly. Believe me when I say there are some things you don't want to know."

Dean takes the picture from his brother, running his thumb over it. "Nice car."

"She's yours," Sam says. "She's parked out front, actually."

"She is?"

"Yeah. You can come and see her, if you like."

Dean nods, unsure, but he does want to see the car. He wants to see the proof of a previous life, steady and inanimate.

"Don't worry, I won't kidnap you or anything." Sam means it lightly, but it does reassure Dean.

"Can we do that? Just walk out of the hospital?"

Sam shrugs. "Not really, no. But that's never stopped us before."

His offhand tone worries Dean a little, but at least Sam's being truthful.

They make it down to the lot, Dean leaning on Sam for support. When he sees the car, he expects some kind of emotional connection, for something to fall into place, but there's no spark. It's just a car. A really nice car, sure, but it doesn't feel like his.

He runs his hand down the side of the hood. "1967 Chevy Impala, yeah?"

"How'd you know that?" Sam tries to be casual, but he can't keep the hope out of his voice.

"I dunno, I just remember a lot about cars. I remember facts, like the president and the capital of Missouri and stuff, I just don't remember myself." His voice falters on the last word.

"You asked where home was," Sam says, testing the waters. "This is it."

Dean looks up at that, eyes prompting him to continue.

"We sort of live on the road. This car, it's pretty much everything we have."

"You and I- we're close?"

Sam exhales. "Yeah. Yeah, we are. You're my best friend."

"I thought you said Castiel-"

"Him too. The three of us, we sort of bonded through tough times. But he's been really busy lately, so we haven't seen as much of him. You and I though, we're family. I'd do anything for you, Dean."

And Dean _really_ wants to believe it. God, he does.

The moment passes, and Sam goes to open the trunk. "Listen, do you want some clothes or something?"

Dean looks down and realizes he's still in his hospital gown. "Oh, uh, yeah. That'd be great."

Sam rummages in the back of the car for a moment, then pulls out an army green duffel. "This is yours. Pick anything."

There it is, proof that this is all real. The clothes fit him perfectly. And Dean finally lets himself trust this man.

"Do you want to-" Sam hesitates, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Yeah, I think I'm ready now. We have to check out from the hospital, don't we?"

Sam shakes his head. "Nah, you weren't there under your real name anyway. Best to not leave a trail and all that."

"You sound like you've done this before."

"Not the amnesia thing, no. But the ditching hospitals? All the time, man."

"We get in trouble a lot?"

"Accidents happen." Sam seems to be holding something back, but Dean doesn't push it. He's already got enough to wrap his head around.

"So, where do we go from here?" Dean makes a move for the driver's seat, but Sam stops him.

"I'll drive."

"Dude, you said this was my car."

"Yeah, but you've just had a concussion, and besides, you're an amnesiac. Who's to say you remember traffic laws?"

"I know how to drive, Sam." But Dean gives his brother the keys anyway, and goes around to the passenger seat.

They drive to some hellhole motel in the middle of nowhere.

"Seriously?" Dean asks. "This is where we're staying?"

Sam shrugs. "It was the first place I saw. I was a little preoccupied with finding you, Dean."

Dean goes to the trunk to get his bag.

"Wait, Dean! How about you go check out the room? I'll get our stuff." There's a nervous undertone to Sam's voice, and Dean worries he's missing something. Well, he's missing a lot of things. He shrugs it off and accepts the motel room key from Sam.

The room is grubby. One bed is made, while the other is messy, sheets twisted. A half-eaten meal sits on the table in the corner, along with a laptop.

Sam enters the room soon after, lugging two matching duffels. He tosses one on the clean bed. "That's yours."

Dean rummages through his bag, mostly clothes, and hesitates when he finds a rifle buried at the bottom. He lifts it out like he's holding a bomb. "Sam?"

"What? Oh." Sam falters when he sees what Dean is holding. "Shit, I thought I hid them all."

Dean feels his smile dropping. What the hell is going on? He clenches his teeth, trying very hard not to scream. "Why do I have a gun in my bag?"

Sam swipes the gun from his brother's hands. "Sorry- we, uh, we like to go hunting together. On this road trip thing, I mean. Shoot deer and stuff, nothing special. But I didn't want to scare you with all the guns and stuff. I tried to, you know, clear them out. Must have missed one."

That makes sense. Dean relaxes his stance. "Thanks, I guess. That was… considerate of you."

"I'll just go… put this in the car." Sam ducks out of the room, and Dean sinks onto the bed.

When Sam returns, he says, "That's what I meant, Dean. I said I couldn't promise you the truth, because I figured if I told you about the guns and stuff, you'd probably run in the other direction. I'm not going to lie to you, but I'm sure this is pretty fucking scary for you. I just want to ease you in slowly."

"The doctors said my memory should come back on its own," says Dean.

"That's good, then." Sam smiles, but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"I think I want to sleep now. It's been a long day." Dean lies down on his side, so he doesn't have to see Sam. This is a lot to take in, and sleep is sounding really good.

"Okay. I'll be up a little while longer, if that's okay." He words his sentences so carefully, as if afraid of slipping up, or afraid of scaring Dean. His tone is gentle. It soothes Dean, who normally wouldn't just go to sleep in a room with a stranger. But it feels safe here. Sam may not feel familiar, but he feels safe. And so Dean finds his eyes drooping closed, and his mind going fuzzy.

* * *

When he wakes, the windows are dark, but a lamp behind him is on. He hears whispered voices, more than one. Dean almost rolls over, but then he hesitates.

"-use your mojo to fix him," he hears Sam say. "He doesn't trust me, and I don't know what else to do."

"But do you really want that, Sam?" says another man, an unfamiliar voice. The voice is gravelly and assured.

"Of course I do! He's my brother!" says Sam, a little louder than before.

"Sam, think about it. Here's your brother, unburdened. He doesn't remember dying, he doesn't remember Hell. He's free of pain. Would you really want to give him back his memories?"

There's a long pause before Sam responds. "Dean would do the same for me. He _did_ do the same for me, when I was, you know, soulless. He didn't stop until he found a way to fix me."

"You said his memories would come back in their own time. Isn't that better than inflicting them all upon his mind at once? Dean's mind might break down."

"He's stronger than that," Sam protests.

"Forty years of Hell, Sam," says the stranger quietly. "Nobody would voluntarily wish that upon themselves. He barely managed it the first time, and you want me to return those memories in one moment? Even I cannot imagine such a staggering weight."

Another long pause. "You're right. I can't hurt him in that way. It'll be better if he just figures it out on his own, won't it? If the memories come back slowly."

"How fares he?" says the stranger. His words are formal, stuttered uncomfortably. Dean finds himself growing curious.

Dean is still waking up and finds the words difficult to process, but he understands one thing. Sam and this stranger seem convinced Dean has a terrible past, and that he'd be better off not remembering. But Dean hates this desperation, this clawing at nothing, this empty mind. He'd give anything to have his memories back. And Sam seems to think this stranger can help.

Dean rolls over then, making it very clear that he's awake. He sits up and stares at the newcomer.

Sam jumps to his feet. "Dean! You're awake!"

"Who the hell are you?" Dean looks the stranger up and down. He's dressed in a suit and tattered trench coat, blue tie knotted loosely. His hair is dark and scruffy. His eyes are intense, unwavering from Dean's own.

"You were correct, Sam. His memory is completely gone," says the man.

"Dean, this is Castiel. Your best friend," says Sam, stressing the last part.

Dean doesn't know himself well yet, but he finds it hard to believe he'd be friends with such a bizarre guy. "Right, I've heard about you. I also heard you were in Alabama."

"Sam called me," says Castiel simply.

"And how did you get here so quickly?"

"I flew." Castiel says it as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

Sam laughs nervously. "On a plane, he means. Yeah, uh, Castiel caught the first plane here."

Huh. Maybe Dean misjudged the guy. Only a really good friend would come so quickly. Admittedly, he's touched by the gesture. "Thanks, dude."

Castiel inclines his head. "It was no trouble."

"How- how long have you been awake?" Sam asks, falsely casual.

"Just woke up," Dean lies. He trusts Sam, he really does, but he's not sure what to do with this new information yet. And it's nice to have a secret of his own.

"I am glad you are safe," Castiel says. "But Sam and I have talked, and I think it's time to leave. I have business to which I must attend." He nods curtly to each of them, and braces himself for something, but Sam jumps in.

"Wait! Castiel, the, uh, door's over there." Sam glances meaningfully at Dean, and for a moment, Castiel looks confused, but then a light gleams in his eyes.

"Ah, yes. I will exit using the door, because… that is what I do." His words are stilted, awkwardly put together. He leaves briskly, letting in the cold night air as he goes.

Once Castiel is gone, Dean turns to his brother, hell in his eyes. "That guy's crazy."

Sam laughs. "It's complicated."

"Remind me again why I'm friends with him?"

"Honestly? He's saved your life a couple of times. He's sacrificed a lot for us, Dean. And it's not like we have a ton of friends to choose from."

"Who's Bobby?" Dean asks.

Sam perks up. "You remember Bobby?"

"Nah," Dean says, and Sam deflates. "His name was in my phone. Sorry, I didn't mean to give you false hope."

Sam sighs. "I'd been hoping, if you slept on it, maybe… something would come back?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nothing so far, sorry."

"That's okay. It'll come in time. Bobby's the closest thing we have to a father, I guess. He lives in South Dakota. Once you're feeling better, we'll probably go see him."

"What happened to our dad? John, right? You talk like he's not around."

Sam runs a hand through his ridiculously long hair. "Yeah, he died about five years ago."

Dean looks down at his feet. "Oh. And Mom?"

"House fire. You were four."

Hell, it sucks to find out both his parents are dead.

Sam seems to read his mind, or at least his expression. "This is what I'm worried about, Dean. We've gone through a lot of pain and suffering. I don't want you to have to relive it."

"You don't want my memories to come back?"

"No, of course I do! I'm just… worried about how you'll cope."

"I'll be fine." He fakes a smile. "It can't be that bad, can it?"

Sam shakes his head. "You have no idea, Dean. Even I can't imagine what it'll be like for you to remember-"

"Hell?" Dean asks. He raises an eyebrow.

Sam looks up, eyes wide with surprise. "You remember-"

"Aw, quit your worrying, I don't remember anything. I just overheard you and Castiel talking about some traumatic experience. You said it was like hell."

Sam slumps down. "You said you were asleep."

"Well, I lied. Apparently that's not very novel to me. You're not telling me things, Sam. I think it's only fair I do the same."

Sam laughs darkly. "Even without your memory, you still tell me everything's fine when it isn't. Some things never change, do they?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing. I want you to remember, Dean, just not the bad stuff."

"Quit being cryptic, okay? I'm fed up with it. I just want to fucking remember who I am! You don't know what it's like, Sammy, you don't know how much this sucks!"

Sam is very quiet. "Sammy. You called me Sammy."

"What? Oh, yeah, I guess I did. Sorry, dude."

Then he smiles broadly, the first real smile Dean's seen. "You called me Sammy!"

"So? That's a pretty regular nickname for Sam, isn't it?"

"No, it's not, it's really not. Dean, that's so uniquely _you_. You're getting it back all on your own, just like the doctors said you would."

Dean doesn't understand. Sam's getting riled up over the nickname, when it was just something that popped into Dean's head…

"You call me that, sometimes, even though you know I hate it. Nobody else calls me Sammy but you, Dean. Maybe it's subconscious, but you're definitely remembering."

Dean smiles too, because his brother's happiness is infectious. "You really do want me to remember."

Sam comes over and sits on his own bed, facing Dean. "Of course I do. What you heard earlier… Cas proposed this, uh, medication that would give you all your memories back at once. And that makes him anxious, because dumping your whole life on you at once might not be healthy. But this, this is good. This is really good."

"Sammy." It fits, it really fits. The name feels familiar. This is the first thing that's felt familiar to Dean at all, and he latches onto it like a lifeline. "Sammy," he repeats. "You're Sammy, my little brother."

This time, he doesn't just trust Sam, he _remembers_ him.

Dean doesn't remember any specific moment from his past, but all of a sudden he just remembers Sam. He remembers that he trusts this man with his life. He remembers the bond they share and he wonders how he could ever have forgotten it.

"God, Sam," he says, and he pulls his brother into a hug.

All of a sudden Sam's _there_ in Dean's mind. He just feels familiar. Dean looks at his face and he recognizes it, and the baggage that comes with it is an incoherent mess.

Now that Dean remembers, he's appalled at his own actions. He understands how hurt Sam was when they first saw each other in the hospital, when Dean said he didn't trust Sam. Trust is all they have.

"You remember me?" Sam asks when they break apart.

"I can't believe I didn't before," says Dean. And it's true.

"What do you remember?"

Dean shrugs. "It's hard to explain. I don't remember anything specific. I can't picture any memories, any times from my past when I've seen you or talked to you or anything. There's nothing there. But you feel really familiar. I'd take a bullet for you."

"You have," Sam says with a gentle smile. "Several times."

"I'm sorry," Dean says, and he realizes he's not far from choking up. "I should have trusted you before. I'm sorry I didn't."

"No, it was fine, I understood. It was hard, though. You looked at me and your eyes were blank, no emotion, nothing."

"I have this… urge to protect you, Sammy." Dean laughs, because it sounds so ridiculous out loud. "I can't explain it, but I just really want to stand between you and danger. Is that normal for me?"

Sam laughs as well. "Yeah, that's normal. You've never said it out loud before, though. But you've always watched over me, ever since we were little."

"That's what brothers do," Dean says. He knows it to be true.

He understands now why Sam hasn't told him the truth. If this protectiveness is reciprocal, he understands that all Sam wants is what's best for Dean. And so he'll trust Sam's judgment. Sam knows Dean's past better than Dean himself does.

Dean trusts Sam with his life. He didn't two minutes ago, but he now feels it down to his bones. If Sam wanted to keep the truth from him, so be it.

Dean exhales sharply. His memory is coming back. He's safe, because he's here with Sammy.

"So it'll all just come back like this?" he asks. "Nothing for days, and then all-at-once overwhelming? That could be bad, couldn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"If my past is as bad as you say it is, do we really want it to just come back like that?"

Sam nods. "You're right, of course you are. I could try explaining some of it to you, to lighten the load. So you know what's coming."

"Okay, that sounds good."

"It's going to sound crazy to you, Dean. Batshit crazy. Promise me you won't run off, or try to shoot me or something."

"You're my brother. I trust you."

Sam exhales. "God, that's good to hear. This past day has been… stressful, to say the least. Actually, this whole week has been, ever since you went AWOL." Then he laughs, a genuine laugh. "Who am I kidding? Our whole life is one big ball of stress."

"So," says Dean, "start from the beginning."

"I will. But first: breakfast."

They go to the diner down the street, and Dean orders waffles with a side of fruit. Sam gives him a weird look.

"What?" he asks.

Sam shakes his head. "Nothing, just, you always order pancakes and bacon. Or sausage. Or some kind of meat. Fruit? Seriously, dude?"

Dean frowns, then turns to the waitress and says, "Changed my mind. Make it what he said: pancakes and bacon."

Once she's gone, Sam looks up at him. "Look, dude, it's okay if your tastes change."

"But that's just the thing, Sam. I don't know what my tastes are. I was just guessing. Right now you know better than I do." He shrugs. "I trust you."

"It's nice to hear that again, it really is. You scared the hell out of me, Dean."

"I'm still pretty scared," Dean admits. "I mean, I don't know who the hell Castiel is, and you keep telling me I've got this terrible past to remember, so I'm not exactly looking forward to that. I don't even remember my own mother."

"If it makes you feel better, neither do I." Sam meets his eyes for a fleeting moment, then looks away. "I mean, I've seen pictures and stuff, but I was six months old when she died."

"What happened?"

Sam takes a deep breath. Now is as good a time as any to start explaining. "A demon came into our house, pinned her to the ceiling, eviscerated her, and set the house on fire."

Dean chokes on his water. "A- a demon?" He laughs shakily. "Listen, Sam, I may be missing a few pieces of my brain, but I'm pretty sure demons aren't _real_."

That's when Sam quietly, gently, explains what they do for a living.

* * *

It takes the better part of the meal to convince Dean that the supernatural is real. But eventually he comes around. They go back to the motel when they're done eating, and Sam unearths their father's old journal.

They flip through it together, going over old notes and research projects.

"So Dad was a hunter too," Dean says.

"After Mom died, he became obsessed with finding the thing that killed her."

"Which was?"

"I'm getting to that." Sam sounds almost annoyed. "This isn't easy. I told you it sounded crazy."

"It is crazy. But I have to believe you."

"You and I, we were raised in the life. Dad taught you to shoot a gun almost as soon as you could go to school. We kept traveling, never staying in one place for too long. I mean it when I say the Impala is as close to a home as we have."

"Normal people don't know about this stuff, right? We're special."

Sam smiles, his eyes distant. "Yeah, I guess that's one way of putting it."

He explains their life, skimming over the details. He tells Dean broad concepts are all that's important. Knowing the basics will make remembering the details easier, Sam says.

Dean doesn't like a lot of the stories, and he finds most of them difficult to swallow, but he trusts Sam. So he keeps listening.

Sam explains what happened in Cold Oak, and how he died. Dean doesn't remember it happening, but he can imagine the pain of losing Sam. He can imagine how it would drive him to make such a deal with a demon.

But then Sam gets to the Devil's Gate in Wyoming.

"I- I shot him, didn't I?" Dean says. His mind grows fuzzy, images falling through like water. "The yellow-eyed demon. Azazel, right? I shot him with a gun, a special gun, right in the heart."

Sam's eyes widen. "Yeah, that's exactly right. That gun was called the Colt. You remember that?"

Dean nods, smile broadening. "I remember that now."

He really does. He remembers the blood, drying warm against his face. He remembers the fear as the demons dispersed in the sky, and he remembers the adrenaline rushing through his veins as he finally killed Azazel. He ended the decades-long hunt for that son-of-a-bitch, with one bullet to the heart.

"It's fitting, that that should be your first memory," says Sam. "That's not the most important thing you've done for the world, but it's the most important thing you've done for our family."

Dean likes that. Sometimes, maybe family is more important than the rest of the world.

The sentimental moment passes, and they move on to other stories.

No other memories resurface that day, but Sam is right. That one's the most important of them all. Now that Dean remembers that, really _remembers_ it, he knows Sam is telling the truth. Azazel was real. Demons are real, and ghosts and vampires too. He's a hunter, born and bred. It's in his blood. The individual stories may not feel familiar, but the person, Dean Winchester, is beginning to. Dean feels a little more like his old self now. He's beginning to recognize his own reflection in the mirror.

"So this deal," Dean says. "How did I get out of it? One year and then I was damned to Hell for all eternity. But I'm here now, so…"

"You didn't get out of it," Sam says. "I'm sorry, Dean. But you went to Hell for me."

Dean shakes his head. "No, that can't be. I'm here now, I'm fine. I-" He stops suddenly, because he remembers something Castiel said earlier. _Forty years in Hell_. "Are you saying I went to Hell for _forty years_?"

Sam sighs. "I told you, there are things you don't want to remember. I can't imagine the pain you went through down there. And that's why I'm worried about your memories returning, Dean. You're going to have to relive that."

Part of Dean wants to find a way to stall the memories. He doesn't want to remember Hell. Sam was right, he's got an ugly past and it terrifies him. But the other part of him really _wants_ to remember everything. Because right now, Dean has one memory and his brother. That's all he has. He doesn't deserve the name Dean Winchester, not yet. But he wants to. He wants to be whole again.

They stop talking about the past there, because Dean isn't sure he wants to learn more. It can only get worse from there. Neither of them feels too happy right now.

Still, though, knowing what's coming will make the actual remembering easier. Sam says they can catch up to the present in the morning.

Instead, Sam takes him out to the car and opens up the trunk. Then he pops a secret compartment, and underneath is an arsenal of weapons.

"Holy shit!" Dean takes a staggering step backwards. "That's a lot of ammo."

Sam props up the lid with a shotgun. "Relax. You know how to handle all of this, you just have to remember." He picks up a long, curved machete and holds it out to Dean.

"I'm not touching that thing."

"Trust me."

Two words Dean can't ignore. He reaches out nervously and takes the machete. It's heavy in his hand, and feels unfamiliar but balanced.

"Recognize anything?"

"Should I?"

Sam shrugs. "Sometimes you sleep with this under your pillow."

"Under my pillow?" Dean gives his brother a disbelieving look. "What if I cut my ear off?"

Sam laughs and takes the knife back. "C'mon, I'll teach you how to shoot again."

Dean automatically reaches for a pistol with ivory grips. Sam smiles as he sees him pick it up.

"That's your preferred gun," he explains. "It's a good sign that you recognize it."

"Where's the Colt? That's the gun I shot Azazel with, right?"

"We lost it," Sam says.

"Lost it? The most powerful gun in existence, and we just _lost _it?"

Sam's eyebrows furrow and his mouth pulls into a frown. "We were a bit preoccupied at the time."

Dean knows better than to ask by now. Sam can elaborate when he thinks Dean is ready.

They take their guns far away from the hotel, and then Sam sets up a few empty beer bottles twenty feet away.

"It's just like riding a bike."

"I don't remember how to ride a bike either, Sammy," Dean reminds him.

Sam shoots him a look, then raises his gun, aims at the bottle on the left, and pulls the trigger.

With a sharp bang, the gun recoils. A moment later, the bottle shatters.

"Nice aim."

"Learned from the best." Sam nods to his brother. "Your turn."

Dean lifts the gun, automatically steadying it against his arm. Sam was right; this is pure instinct. He pulls the trigger before he can overthink it, and he hits his mark. Another broken bottle.

His mind flashes back to almost twenty-five years ago, with his dad, shooting empty beer bottles in a field not unlike this one. He remembers the gun, heavy in his hand, and he remembers his father's words of praise. For the first time, he remembers the sound of his father's voice, fuzzy in the background, and a familiar face, towering above his own…

"Dean!"

Dean looks up, and the world comes back into focus, as if he's just woken from a deep sleep. Sam's face is there, edges blurry, and Dean focuses on that to pull himself back to the present.

"What?" he snaps, a little sharper than necessary.

"You zoned out there for a second. Put your hands to your head like you were having a migraine. What's going on?"

Dean focuses on the cool steel of the gun in his hand. "I think I just remembered the first time I shot a gun."

"That's great! I'd hoped this would bring something back. I'd hoped it wouldn't be a traumatic memory, like-"

"Like Hell," Dean finishes.

"Yeah. So what do you remember?"

"I don't know. I think I was pretty small, because Dad looked tall in comparison. Was he tall?"

"Yeah," Sam says, "although I was taller. I think you were around six, maybe five."

"Five years old and learning to shoot? Jesus, you weren't kidding when you said we were raised this way."

"We're hunters. We deal."

Dean lifts the gun and shoots the last three bottles. Perfect hits.

"I told you it would come back," says Sam. "You've always been the better marksman."

"Damn straight," he mumbles. "So this is what we do, then? Shoot things?"

"Basically. We hunt things and solve problems and save the world every now and again."

"And there are more… more like us?"

Sam nods. "Loads. Some of them, some of our friends, have died fighting. You'll… you'll remember them soon enough. And some are still fighting, like Bobby. Bobby used to hunt with Dad. Now he hunts with us from time to time. He lives in South Dakota, and we go there when we need a place to stay. We'll probably drive over there tomorrow."

Dean nods. "Does he know about my… situation?"

"I called him while you were asleep. You'll like Bobby."

"And Castiel, you said we team up with him sometimes. He's a hunter, too?"

Sam looks at his brother nervously. "That's… a little more complicated. We'll talk about that tomorrow."

It's been a long day and the sky is going dark, so they walk back to the motel together.

"You've made a lot of progress for one day, Dean. We'll see how tomorrow goes."

Then they curl up in separate beds, backs to one another, and fall asleep.

* * *

Dean wakes up with his memory substantially more intact than it was before. He shakes his brother awake.

"Sam! Sammy!"

"Dean? What is it?" Sam rolls over, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"I remember."

At that, Sam bolts upright. "Everything?"

"No, dummy, not _everything_. But enough." Dean repeats back to Sam some of his memories.

Most of them are minor, individual moments or hunts. He remembers a bar in Oklahoma, a one-night-stand in Montana, and a couple of cursed objects in California. Clearly Dean doesn't get to choose what he remembers, or when.

He remembers one Christmas, holed up in a nasty hotel with Sam. John was out on a hunt, and he and Sam had the place to themselves. They were miserable for most of it, but he remembers some kind of happy ending to the night. Sam gave him a gift, he thinks. The details are still fuzzy.

He remembers the big fight that Sam and John had, the night before Sam went to college. He remembers storming out halfway through to go calm down in the car. He _hated_ it when they fought, and he always got stuck in the middle. And he remembers Sam leaving, barely stopping to say goodbye to his own brother.

He remembers the fire in Sam's apartment, and he remembers pulling his brother out from the flames. He remembers Sam's grief over Jessica's death, and he remembers his own empathy.

Some of the memories are painful, like Sam told him they would be. But others are good, comforting. It's a mixture, a balance of the two.

Sam's face lights up at each one, though. He's so grateful to have pieces of his brother back, regardless of how haphazard and random they are. Dean's really starting to feel familiar with himself again. And he feels familiar with Sam, too. He remembers details about Sam now, about their shared past. He remembers things they've done together, places they've been, words they've exchanged. The history matters to him almost as much as the trust.

They skip breakfast and hit the road as soon as the sun's up.

They don't talk much on the way, which Dean takes to be habitual for them. Sam insists on driving again, but he allows Dean to choose the music.

"I don't know what I like," Dean admits.

Sam rolls with it – he's become a lot more accepting of the memory gaps in the past few days – and fumbles through the cassette tapes. "This is one of your favorites."

Dean flips it over in his hands, examining the label, and then inserts it into the player. The intro to an old rock song comes on. "Led Zeppelin? This is what I like?"

"You _love_ this stuff, man."

And when Sam says it, it rings true in Dean's mind. He listens to the music, really listens, and it definitely feels familiar. He doesn't remember any of the words but he recognizes the melody. He knows every dip and twist of the melody, and he hums along, stumbling over phrases that he almost-sort of remembers. It feels like a favorite song he hasn't heard in a very, very long time.

A phone rings and Sam tosses it to his brother. "Can you answer that?"

Dean stares at his brother, terrified. "What do I say?" But he picks up, and starts with, "Uh… hello?"

"Dean." That raspy voice, he recognizes it. Thank God, finally something familiar. It's Castiel, his supposed best friend.

"Hi, uh, Castiel?"

"I need to consult you and your brother about-"

"Listen, I still don't remember you, so you'd probably be better off talking to Sam."

"Ah. Yes, the amnesia. Where are you now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Give me your location."

Dean glances out the window, and then down at the map on his lap. "Uh, we're just outside of Pierre; we passed mile marker 67 a moment ago."

"I'll be there immediately." But the voice doesn't sound from just the phone, it also comes from behind him.

Sam flinches in his seat slightly at the sound.

Dean twists around, and practically jumps out the window. Castiel is suddenly in their backseat, looking as though he's been there since the beginning.

Dean drops the phone. "What the hell? How did you-"

Sam groans. "Forget it, Dean. I'll explain later."

"I know you said some demons could- wait, are you a demon? Why are we working with a demon? What the-"

"I am not a demon, Dean. I am an angel of the Lord."

All that does is confuse Dean further.

"Cas, he doesn't- I was going to explain later today."

"Explain what? That freaking angels exist?" Dean turns back to his brother. "Start now."

"Wouldn't it be simpler if I just returned his memories?" Castiel says.

"No," says Sam sharply. "Besides, it was your idea to wait."

"Returned my- right, because that medicine thing you were talking about."

"Medicine?" Castiel looks at Sam. "What have you told him?"

"Nothing," says Sam. "Listen, Dean, we talked about Hell, right? How the hellhounds came and…"

"Yeah, and I'm still wondering why I'm walking and talking now. Care to elaborate?"

Sam nods at Castiel. "He brought you back."

"He what?"

"I gripped you tight and-"

"Raised you from perdition, yeah," Sam finishes, as if he's heard it a thousand times. "You were down there for four months, and then Castiel, on the orders of his superiors, went down into Hell and rescued your body and soul. Brought you back to the living."

Dean takes a deep breath. "Thanks, man." Is this why he's friends with Castiel? Because he owes the guy his _life_? "But, uh, how?"

"Like he said, Cas is an angel."

"Yeah, because that's not hard to believe at all."

"We didn't believe it either, when we first met him. But it's true. You just saw him show up in the backseat."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean he's got wings and a freaking halo."

"My wings do not manifest on this plane, in this vessel, but believe me when I say I have them."

"Seriously? Angels?"

Castiel sighs. "It is always easier for you humans to believe in demons than to believe in angels. I believe that says something about humanity, does it not?"

Sam considers that for a moment, then says, "He's telling the truth, Dean. God is real. We've met plenty of angels in our own time. I've been, uh, possessed by one, actually."

"You-" Dean can't find his words.

Castiel explains further in that patient, formal tone of his, and Dean drinks in the new information. Cas and Sam explain the seals on Lucifer's cage and how Lilith and her demons broke them, and they tell of the rise of Lucifer and the four Horsemen. Dean doesn't remember any of it, and a lot of it doesn't make any sense, but he believes them. He's seen the evidence.

They arrive at Bobby's house and postpone the conversation for another time.

Clearly, Sam has called ahead, because Bobby patiently introduces himself to Dean and offers a tour of the house. His attitude is gruff and a bit stubborn, but he also seems concerned for Dean. Dean takes a liking to the man immediately.

Later that evening, they've opened their beers and relax in the living room. Bobby is on the phone with someone named Annie, something about a vampire nest in Seattle, and so Sam and Dean sit alone. Castiel left as soon as they arrived with some excuse about a weapon of God in Kentucky.

They watch some mindless soap opera on TV and drink their beers. Dean learns quickly that he has a high tolerance for alcohol, and is already on his fifth shot of whiskey before he starts to feel anything. Sam nurses a couple of beers and reads an old book of Bobby's. The silence falls between them comfortably. Dean no longer has any questions. The memories will come back in their own time, he realizes that now.

Bobby wanders in long after midnight. "Listen, Sam, if we're going to stop Eve we need to find a weakness of hers, and I've got nothing. Do you think-"

Sam cuts him off with a look, then nods towards Dean.

"What's going on?" Dean asks, looking up from the television.

"Nothing," Sam says. "There's this case we've been working on for a little while. Nothing you need to be bothered with. I'm just going to talk to Bobby for a few minutes."

They leave the room, and Dean strains to hear their conversation, but it doesn't make any sense to him out of context. Something about monsters and some lady named Eve. Then Sam and Bobby return and settle down on either side of him.

"So what am I missing?" Dean asks. "Were we hunting this thing before, when I hit my head?"

Sam shakes his head. "Nah, that was a minor case, something to pass the time. I finished off one of the chimaeras, but you were chasing the other one. I'm assuming it's gotten away."

"And we didn't go after it?"

Sam looks uncomfortable. "Well, you were… incapacitated. And you're more important than some beast. I called up one of the local hunters and asked him to take care of it."

Dean hangs his head. "I can't even gank one monster without fucking up." To be taken down by something that simple, it's embarrassing.

"Son, I've seen you take down a whole pack of werewolves singlehanded," says Bobby. "We all have our bad days."

Yeah, he likes this Bobby Singer a lot. Dean only wishes he could remember him.

They turn in for the night soon after that.

* * *

Dean sleeps fitfully, ridden with nightmares he can't quite pull himself out of. He remembers blood and pain and fire. Images surface, and they terrify him – clean cuts between ribs, disfigured faces… is that a small intestine? The nightmares disgust him and fascinate him simultaneously, but mostly he just feels fear. The fear creeps into his gut and tears at his skin, or maybe that's the meathooks, he can't tell anymore. He just wants it to end.

When it finally does, he rolls over and cries into his pillow.

The sun rises but Dean stays in bed, still shaking from the nightmare. That must be Hell, he thinks. He tries not to think about the images, but now that he's remembered he just can't forget. They lurk under the surface of his every thought, seeping through like blood under a hasty bandage.

Dean understands now why his brother chose not to return all the memories at once. He can barely handle the memories of Hell, even after Sam prepared him for it.

He can still feel the knives. It felt so real. It _was_ real, but this is just an afterimage, a memory. God, why did he ever want to remember?

Sam comes into the room then and sees Dean. "Dude, what's wrong?"

"I feel like shit," Dean mumbles into his pillow.

"Do you remember anything?"

"Yeah," he says, but doesn't elaborate.

Sam catches on very quickly. "I'll make you some breakfast."

"No meat," Dean says. Maybe that's an unusual request for him, but he's seen enough bloody chunks of muscle and fat lately.

Sam brings him breakfast in bed, then hovers at the foot of the bed. "Do you need anything?"

Dean makes eye contact, and he sees his own pain reflected in Sam's eyes.

"Was it bad?" Sam asks.

"What do you expect? It was Hell." Dean frowns down at his lap. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Sorry," Sam says, and leaves.

Dean eventually goes downstairs and learns from Bobby that Sam's gone out on a supply run. He considers calling Castiel, just for the company, but he doesn't really remember Castiel yet. Besides, the way Castiel stares at him makes him feel uncomfortable.

He flips through some old books instead. His family never kept photo albums, apparently, but his father kept a journal, so Dean looks through that.

As the day progresses, more memories return. By the time Sam comes home, Dean remembers about fifty percent of his life. He definitely remembers Castiel now, and he realizes that he owes the angel an apology. Cas is a good friend and Dean treated him poorly.

Dean also remembers most of the Apocalypse. Sam had yet to cover that in his crash-course-in-the-Winchester-family-history, but now it's unnecessary. A lot of the memories hurt as they returned, but there were shining moments too. When Sam walks in the door, Dean greets him with a hug.

"You went to Hell to save the world," he says. "Thank you."

"You went to Hell to save me," replies Sam. "Thank _you_."

Bobby grumbles something about them being _self-sacrificing_ _idjits_.

* * *

The next few days progress slowly. Sam almost takes Dean on a hunt in Minnesota, but at the last moment another hunter takes over for them. Dean's not quite ready to jump back into the life. He remembers most of the current situation with Eve and Purgatory. He's not much use to Bobby and Sam, but at least he can follow their conversations pretty well now.

Time passes. The memories fall into place as if they'd never been gone. Soon Dean is a fully-functioning hunter again. He drinks beer and listens to rock and eats cheeseburgers again like it's second nature. He feels like Dean Winchester again.

But every now and again, he feels like shaky, confused John Doe too. Strip away the memories, take away the leather jacket and the classic rock, and Dean is nothing. _Nothing_. If the amnesia teaches him anything, it's that.

He never loses sight of himself again.


End file.
